Between Shades of Gray
by 1MissMandi
Summary: Amid what we see, this is what actually is. A behind-the-episode guide to EO.
1. Chapter 1

Genre: AU

Present time: Post Ghost S6E16 and goes from there. Follows storylines from cases in sequential order, but sticks to this alternate reality behind the scenes.

Pairing: Elliot/Olivia (Established Relationship)

Categories: Angst, Romance

* * *

><p><span>POST-GHOST<span>

"_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt." Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

"Mmm," she purrs into the cords of his neck. Her voice is gruff and sleep-laced still; rushed out by the sudden weight atop her. He languidly slides himself inside as he cradles her in the early morning hour.

Elliot lifts one of her thighs up and over his hip before returning his face to the sweet indentation of his lover's jaw. Morning sex was never possible before; there was always a needy child or an uninterested wife. But with Olivia, he was fascinated at how in sync they were in life outside the office, and how they both liked to start the day with measured releases and sour breath.

Their arms grasp each other loosely; the last vestiges of sleep still hanging on everywhere. With her eyes closed, she absorbs his relief, neither of them bothering with the inevitable anger that was sure to fill their day.

The knots slowly unravel inside her when his fingers reach down and draw lazy circles just under her pubic hair. Warmth spreads over her skin, both from the budding January sun and from the man making love to her. Memories of things long forgotten, both visions and feelings, blur past her subconscious. She can't help it; it's what he does to her. The _things_ he does to her.

Today, she recalls the first time he called her "Liv". She'd always been just Olivia, even to those closest to her. He wasn't even tentative about it – the nickname slipped out like it had always been. There was no fight, no disagreement, no relationship-cementing conversation preceding it. It was somewhere in their third year as partners, before her mother died; a simple "Hey, Liv, another cup?" as she slammed down her second cup after a long night of tossing and turning. He had brushed it off when she stared at him and shook her head, but the warm fuzzy feeling that crawled up from her stomach to her chest stayed with her all day long.

It was the first time she felt included. Wanted.

And now, as he moans the nickname into her ear, that same feeling returns to the pit of her stomach and washes over her a second time as his body clings tighter to her. Fingers tangle in her hair and try to bury themselves under the skin on her back and she acquiesces and arches to accommodate him. Her hips open wider and her feet hook higher on his back as he settles into the crux of her body and breathes heavily on her neck.

"Liv," he says. _Live._

She just smiles and wraps her arms around him, holding him in the present because that's where she wants to stay.

If only.

[]

Surprisingly, their transition from partners to lovers started as casual and uncomplicated. An honest comment led to a hug which led to a kiss which led to a smile and wink and a secret. Dates were coffee shops and terrible movies at 3am at each other's apartments under separate blankets and no sex. It wasn't about sex.

They just were.

That first night, when she returned home from the precinct, Elliot's comments had reverberated in her head. Part of her had said the things she had to elicit some sort of comment, but she wasn't expecting the impact of his words to hit so hard and to mean so much.

"_And look how great you turned out."_

The comfort those seven words provided stunned her.

She hadn't intended to sleep with him, or kiss him, or anything really, but that same feeling of inclusion and odd acceptance drove her to knock on his door at one that morning. She'd hesitated, of course, but the moment he opened the door, she'd flung her arms around him and nearly collapsed. And she had figured he would know, of course, because in the time he'd spent away from Kathy she'd caught him lingering, noticing things about her that she was sure he'd tried not to while he had been married.

She'd pulled away from him after long minutes of a tender embrace she'd never forget - the tears dried against her flushed cheeks - and softly pressed her lips to his. It wasn't sexual, it wasn't long awaited, it was just _thank you_. And when he smiled down at her and drew her in for another kiss, this time full of want and realization, the door shut behind them, locking their new beginning inside a bare bones apartment off Lexington.

[]

The sun begins to fill the room now as they lay spooning on top of the strewn bed sheets. He aimlessly plays with the lone curl at the nape of her neck as she stares outside at the sprinkles of rain beginning to tap the glass. Snow hadn't yet made its appearance this winter, but the rain is somehow more soothing to her than the blanketing of white on the dirty city. Metaphorically, it washes away the grit and grime whereas the snow highlights everything, making a grayish muddled mess of it all.

"You'd think she could have said goodbye. She did last time," she mutters aloud, unable to suppress the hurt and betrayal in her voice.

His hand stills on her neck. With a deep exhale, he leans in to kiss the spot and nuzzle into her a bit more. "But we knows she's safe now. I guess that's the difference."

Olivia half smiles and grasps the arms draped around her before planting a kiss on his cheek. She makes a move to sit up and he lets her, watching as her nude body casts a jagged shadow on the messy bed.

"I wanted to tell her, you know. About us."

Elliot just nods and lays back against the now cool white pillow behind him. She's in the middle of a train of thought, and he's just going let her ride that out until she settles it in her mind. The truth is, he wanted to tell Alex, too. He sat in that high rise hotel room playing backgammon, listening to Alex's nervous laughter, and all he wanted was to say _"I'm sorry you had to _die_, but you eventually brought us together." _But that wouldn't have eased the other woman's worries over her case, so for once, he chose to keep his mouth shut and continued distracting her with board games.

Tanned arms stretch out above Olivia's head and he's mesmerized by the subtlety in her strength. The muscles in her back are knotted but beautiful, holding so much more tension than is visible, making them fluid and miraculous.

"She was telling me about her life in Wisconsin. The man she was dating," she says without turning around. "There was this… this sadness behind her eyes when she told me he called her Emily. I knew I couldn't then. And I was so drawn in with empathy at her for having to pretend to be someone else. I do it all the time."

She turns to face him, her left leg bending at the knee and propping up next to her. "I do it every day," she continues sadly.

Next to her, he frowns, his lips forming a small line across his chin. He knows what she means, they both pretend to be just partners to everyone around them. Their boss, their friends, his kids, his ex; no one knows they share each other's beds. Being with her is comfortable and easy and it makes him forget the darkness inside of him at the end of the day, but he's not sure where they're headed. He had been hoping that conversation was a long time coming, but it looks like it's about to happen now.

So he smiles quickly, reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and caress her cheek with his thumb. "You don't with me. And it won't be like this for long. It's a new year."

Her head ducks down before lifting again as she smiles at him in agreement. "Coffee?"

"Yeah."

She seems to gather every last ounce of strength in her reserve to lift herself off the bed with a squeak. She pulls her silk robe off the chair next to the window and gazes out while tying it securely. For as beautiful as people have told her she is, she has no confidence in her naked form.

The bed creaks but she can't pull her eyes from the streets. They're just starting to fill with people and cabs and at the rush of umbrellas and windshield wipers drift past her four stories below.

Arms encircle her and she smells the lingering remains of his cologne. It's always subtle, and she isn't sure if it's coming from him or her own skin. Her eyes slip closed as he gently rocks her, his nakedness awakening and sliding along the under curve of her behind.

"I'm going to hit the shower. Join me when you're done," he whispers and kisses the back of her head, slipping away to the small bathroom behind them.

When the door closes, she sighs._ A new year_, she thinks, reveling in his unspoken promise. Never before had an increment of time held so much potential. She has never been one to look forward to the future, not for personal reasons anyway. But the little flip her stomach does when she thinks about what could be with her and Elliot is enough to make even the most cynical part of her subconscious a believer.

[]


	2. Chapter 2

POST-RAGE

"_Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody"_

– _Mark Twain_

"_You say you see something in me. Well, I see something in you, too. You think you control? You can't. You're controlled... by your boss, by your job, by your wife, by your kids. What would you be if all those controls went away?"_

Rickett's voice is a wild whisper in Elliot's ear. The repetition of "I see something in you, too" sticks in his head like a bad song lyric. He's always been afraid of the lingering effects of his childhood abuse. Memories of his father's hostility and the beatings had always left him wondering what would happen if he did lose all his controls.

"_I'd be you."_

And that would be it, wouldn't it? Simple as that. There is but a thin line that separates Elliot the Righteous Cop from Elliot the Ticking Time Bomb, and even _he_ is not sure where the breaking point lies.

The tension between the two of them – bad cop, bad guy – had rolled around the squad room and everyone had felt it. Elliot wanted nothing more than to break Rickett on his own, to prove that he was nothing but a child-raping, vengeful, weak, and stupid man. But the thing is, Rickett isn't stupid. He's calculating and in tune with his inner monster, so much so that it nearly frightens Elliot. Rickett read him like a pop-up book, taking away all the excuses and layers and getting to the beast within that Elliot always thought was buried too deep for anyone to find.

Now he wonders if Rickett is special, or if everyone around him can see it.

Olivia must see it. She took that shot. And he sees red just thinking of her face so he recognizes that he can't be around her right now. At work, luckily, they still pretend they are just partners. They could be the only ones in the squad room, or even the precinct; nevertheless, they are nothing but professional. They go home separately. They argue loudly and unweidlingly.

However, when Elliot chooses not to argue with her, that is when he's most volatile.

His knuckles, now dried with blood and throbbing, had taken the brunt of his rage toward her. It had climaxed; grown inside his bones, once contained within the marrow and calcium density, until it was in his blood. Every time his rage opened skin on his fists, he bled it out. And he enjoyed the warm, coppery release.

The last place he belongs tonight is here, but his feet seem to walk themselves into the crowded bar three blocks from his apartment. He scans the room, taking in the atmosphere. Throngs of people scatter the room, with their dark clothes and the red and black wallpaper blending together. The cool air reeks of Midori and limes, a signature of the drink the women who frequent places like this enjoy.

Eyes from across the room snap to his like a heat seeking missile. He can tell as she walks over that she's not looking for something of permanence; the gleam in her soft blue, half-lidded eyes flickers from the lowlights of the chandeliers. The combination of long, brunette locks and pale skin along with stunning blue eyes sends his hormones into overdrive. She is different. She doesn't know him. He's rough and ready and flirts a good game when he's pissed. He knows some women are just drawn to an aura of angst.

He thinks not of his ex wife or of Olivia. He sees only blue and brown, and a mesmerizing pink curve of lip as he thinks about how warm and velvety she would be to sink into. He imagines his hips slamming into hers with no restraint, no strings. Just once, he wants to be that man. The one who doesn't imagine his daughter at the receiving end of a monster, the one who doesn't see his partner as anything more than the archetypal abstract officer.

Their conversation is not strained; instead it's loaded with innuendos. She tells him she's in marketing, early 30s, not interested in marriage or family. He tells her he's a personal trainer, and he attributes his battered fists to this as she takes one hand in hers and traces the clotted blood patterns with an animalistic flare of her nostrils.

"My place is around the corner. I could use a personal session," the beautiful stranger murmurs seductively, pressing her youthful, succulent frame into his. The feel is alluring, yes, but the voice somehow is all wrong.

As if by fate, his phone vibrates in his pocket and recognition focuses. His control is once again lost to the woman on the other line because he's reminded of her and now he knows. He knows why this is all wrong.

"You couldn't handle me," is all he says as he throws back the remainder of his drink and tosses a worn twenty on the circular table before abruptly leaving the brunette with her mouth agape.

Elliot wanted to fuck her hard and fast, to hear the slap of skin on skin so that when he was done, he could get up and leave the room before the permeation of sweat and dissatisfaction registered in his senses. Something invisible held him back - still holds him back as he walks the hard cement back to his apartment. He could turn into any bar he passes and grab a fuck buddy, but the thing inside him resists.

And then he realizes the difference between him and Rickett isn't control. It's not people or things keeping him from being a murderous criminal.

That thing is his conscience. He _has_ one.

It's that small voice in the back of his head that tells him when he's making a terrible decision, or tells him when to stop, or leads him in the right direction. It's the same voice that empathizes with victims and children and holds disdain for the people who hurt them.

His conscience.

As he rounds the corner to his block, he pulls his phone from his pocket. The voicemail symbol in the corner tugs at the corner of his mouth. A part of him is always afraid she'll see the things in him that he's tried so desperately to hide and be repulsed by them. He should know better, seeing as how she's got her own demons to battle.

He's ultimately surprised as he drags his feet to his stoop to find her sitting there, huddled in her puffy black coat and clutching a blue coffee cup. She's not omniscient, so he knows she can't read into what happened just twenty minutes ago and how he almost became the kind of man he despises.

She looks almost fragile against the grand door in the entryway; her knees nearly glued together and feet splayed more than a foot apart like a child. Her eyes meet his and all his anguish dissipates.

"Elliot," Olivia whispers, eying his bruised knuckles with a furrowed brow. "I was worried."

Taking a quick glance at his watch, he sees that it's 2:48 in the morning, and he understands her concern. He doesn't know how long she's been waiting, but really, it doesn't matter anymore.

"I know," he replies, pressing the hand she's grasping at to her cheek. "It's nothing. Just letting out some steam."

With one touch, he feels healed. Everything behind her sparkling brown eyes is everything he's ever needed. He's not a monster. He doesn't despise this broken set of hands. These same hands have bled and fought and brought pain, but they have loved. They have held babies and interlocked fingers and brought pleasure to the woman he loves.

And hers have forgiven.

The sympathy in her eyes melts his heart, and he pulls her up so she's eye level to him, one step up. Tonight he came very close to losing the one good thing that he's chosen to keep in his life. His embrace is eager and clingy, but she doesn't question. She doesn't fight or pull away.

She's the opposite of every woman he's ever known.

He may be close, but he is yet to be broken. He pulls himself back and holds her at arms length. He's so overcome with the desire to take her inside and hold her that he misses the cue inside of him that warns him that she's not about to let this go, his relief keeps the noise from breaking through.

The questioning may not be vocal, but there is a hesitation in her step. She follows, tamping down the screaming in her head. So much has happened over the last few days, and there is a dark cloud she can feel looming overhead. Olivia turns to shut the door and takes a moment to suppress the tears that blur her eyes before she turns to join him. It hurts almost more than the anger and distance.

The door closes on the whiskey and perfume.

[]


	3. Chapter 3

"_The entire sum of existence is the magic of being needed by just one person."_

– _Vi Putnam_

In three years, she has convinced herself that she'd truly moved past her mother's death and all the things that went unsaid and unresolved. But one look at Carrie Eldridge brought back the anguish she'd buried long ago. Perhaps she sacrificed too much of herself to give that girl the chance she never had, and in the end, it cost her another piece of her soul. Tonight after court, she sat at that dim dive and confessed to Casey Novak things she'd tried so well to keep hidden.

Ever since entering the academy, she's always been grateful for what her life was instead of dwelling – because it could always have been much worse – but damn it, this once she'd allowed herself to grieve, to release the tangled emotions that ensnare her heart.

But the wrong person was listening.

Olivia shows up at Elliot's door afterwards, having decided to tell him the same things she'd revealed to Casey. He does nothing but listen with a sympathetic ear and pour her more tea. She doesn't know it then, but he knows all too well the kinds of lasting effects physical and emotional abuse can have on a child. He's kept her close to him, but guarded, since that night he found her huddled onto his stoop at 3 AM after he'd nearly cheated, a near transgression that, to his knowledge, she is still unaware of.

For all the progress they've made, they still don't really talk.

When she is done, she looks up at him and they hold their stare for what feels like an eternity before he wraps his arms around her tight. She's holding on to the memories and pain like an old lover's T-shirt, and he needs her to let go.

He feels proud that she's come to him; he knows nothing of her evening prior with Casey. All the buildings could come crashing down around them and all the oceans could overflow and all he would grasp in this moment is her lips trembling on his neck, seeking comfort in the most basic of human ways.

"I only know that I'm better where you are," she whispers, quaking beneath his touch.

He walks her to his bedroom just before dawn, sits on the edge of the bed and tells her he wants her to undress if for no other reason than to shed her of this pain and this grip on her past. The sheers cover the window as the sun begins to peek over the horizon; the light a mix of gray and pink in his bedroom.

When the last of her clothing drops beneath her and as she slouches, he brings her to stand between his legs.

"You are… beautiful."

Elliot's mouth is hot and wet on the skin of her stomach. He presses a sweet, almost chaste kiss to the scar that lines her abdomen – the one that she just told him originated from a broken bottle her mother so willingly wielded one night – and softly murmurs, "This is beautiful" against the marred flesh.

Her eyelids press closed tightly and a single drop emerges from one, sliding effortlessly down her cheek. Her chin quivers and she purses her lips to quell the movement. She thinks she must try to find comfort in this, even if the light seems to be flowing too quickly into the previously darkened room.

His hands trace up her sides and rest on her seemingly imperfect breasts. She cowers.

"I love these," he says in hushed tones as he cradles them in his scarred hands. His palms then find her shoulders and lower her slowly to rest next to him as he continues to explore the imperfections, scars, and blemished parts along her golden skin.

She sighs when his tongue parts her softly. Her toes curl and trace up his back, and Olivia freely wishes he was shirtless. The bed sheets are cool against her flushed skin, fistfuls of them wrinkle in between her fingers.

He purrs his pleasure into her core; her very scent breeding thoughts of ecstasy within himself. Soft moans fill his ears, muffled only by the quaking thigh that covers one. The sheets rustle and she pulls his head up, desperate for him to fill her.

The sounds of the city begin to climb through his window. Vendors are pushing their carts towards the street corners and horns are honking intermittently, a sure sign that the day has begun. But inside his apartment, Olivia touches him, her hands up pressing up his arms and covering his shoulders, pulling gently to bring his lips to hers. Elliot presses in; his lips, still covered in remnants of her, smothering hers while his arms tangle in his shirt. He's desperate to free himself and once he does he collapses onto her, skillfully wrapping his arms around her and rolling so she's on top of him.

He lets her take control. She's so much more beautiful when she stops thinking and just lets go.

It happens so fast, but he wants it that way. Her head throws back, her body shakes uncontrollably. He pulls his hand from her wet center and sits up to cradle her. Her knees are planted firmly on either side of his thighs and he rocks her until she stops shaking.

It's not until his phone rings that they part, her sleepy eyes catching his in disappointment.

Cragen tells him to call her. _As if_, he thinks, _she's anywhere but in my arms_. He agrees and shuts the phone, begrudgingly moving Olivia aside to head towards the shower.

Another day has begun, their work is endless.

[]

BLOOD

Three days of arguments.

He's tired of fighting. Kathleen's arrest, her fear of him, Kathy's resentful glare; it all makes him want to crawl inside himself. He usually throws himself into his work when he can't deal with his private life, but these days, his private life has infiltrated his work.

Too many things pile up quickly. The pieces of this mess are strewn about, his life nearly in shambles. This case, his daughter, the recollections of his own mother. The stress of it has his relationships with his partner –_ lover_ – and his captain both taking back burner. He can't seem to recognize when he becomes overprotective.

Elliot sees his mother in Jenny Rogers. Bernadette was never as supportive, but both women are delusional; needy. Vulnerable. Jenny is everything he wishes to fix in his mom. In court, he stares coolly at Kevin. The man represents everything he hates within himself; the darkness, the rage, the assumptions, the arrogance. Mostly, he wants to destroy him, save Jenny. No, mostly, he's envious. He wishes his mother could have been what Jenny is. He wishes for endless hugs and stability and the absence of painful memories.

This is why he didn't think twice about bailing Kathleen out. Elliot is always there for his children, even when it's a liability to himself.

[]

Another night alone may go unregistered by him, but Olivia starts to worry. Kevin's lawyer files an official complaint against him, and though she understands, she sees the slippery slope. She stands there helpless as Cragen reprimands him.

"How many times you think you can break the rules and get away with it?"

Immediately the guilt washes over her. He tries to do what's right for his cases and his children, even when it goes against the rules. But their illicit relationship is against the rules as well. Monumentally. That said, she may know this in her head, but her heart knows she doesn't want to lose him, or wreck what they have.

Two nights, she sleeps alone. On the third, when she can't take anymore, she calls the precinct. Open desk clerk says Elliot has checked in with an arrest. Curious, she throws her coat back on and heads out the door.

Elliot is there with Jenny Rogers, wearing wrinkled clothes and a weary, guilty look.

"I just keep losing people," he laments, a faraway look in his eyes that breaks her heart. She knows he refers to more than these people; he means his family. It makes her sorrowful for him, however she cant help but feel a little less significant. "I don't want another victim."

She always concedes. He's so sanctimonious when he's right. She would protect him to the ends of the earth, and though he tries to dissuade her from helping, it's as natural to her as her blood. She can't help who she is, and the sheer magnitude of her emotions for him make her spring into action.

Later that night, she finds him staring at himself in a mirror one of his daughters made, hanging lonely on the door of his locker. The pictures that used to surround it are now gone, probably packed away with the rest of his feelings. Fin is beside her but he remains quiet. This is her call, her idea. He knows better than to interfere with their dynamic.

Elliot listens. Their idea is sound, but it will take a few days to coordinate. She steps back into the shadows while he and Fin catch Kevin, and it doesn't escape her notice that Elliot flinches when Jenny comes into the squad to blame him for Kevin's arrest. He internalizes more guilt and more blame through Jenny, something she instinctually credits to his mother, though she's not entirely sure why. But Olivia won't bring her up. There's a reciprocity in their avoidance regarding their parents that she doesn't give a second thought.

That night, she isn't surprised when he shows up at her door.

"Don't leave me." The words are sweet but the tone is seething.

"I won't."

"It seems… everyone leaves me." She's not sure who exactly he means, but she can guess.

A hesitation lingers. Kathy is not someone they discuss these days, not when so much of his emotional distress is soothed between her legs. There's a churning in her gut that tells her something is really off with him these days. His lovemaking has been harder, rougher, lately. And it generally comes that way when he's battling something he refuses to talk about.

Before she can respond to his statement, his mouth is hot on hers. Penetrating. His tongue, normally velvet and smooth, circles frivolously. He backs her into her living room, kicking the door shut behind him. Her knees hit the armrest on her couch and he nearly shoves her onto it.

"El," she protests meekly. She's no match for him when he's like this, and though it doesn't scare her, it does alarm her in ways that keep her up at night. A sex detective who has these kinds of issues with power, anger and sex really should take a step back and re-evaluate.

Not that she'd ever risk telling him that. He is, after all, her partner.

He doesn't verbally check her first, but he does hold himself firmly at her entrance with a pained look. She nods and lays there as he slides into her roughly, soothing himself yet again within her.

There's not much she knows anymore. Everything between them should have gotten easier by now, but all she feels is helpless. Their feelings seemed to grow at first, but the longer they hide it from everyone around them, the more it feels illicit. Now, sex is their salve and as much as she enjoys it, she still finds herself missing him.

He used to be her friend, too. Olivia wonders if he needs her more than he wants her.

They still don't talk.

[]


	4. Chapter 4

POST-GOLIATH

"_Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves." ~ Henry David Thoreau_

There's a line drawn in the sand.

The cases involving kids are the worst. Top this one off with a military conspiracy, and Elliot finds his world topsy-turvy.

He prides himself on the fact that he is an ex-Marine, a man who served and sacrificed for his country. He vividly remembers coming home from Kuwait to find that everyone at home, though thankful and proud of his decision, had gone on without him. Kathy had turned into a valiant woman, a family woman, and her responsibilities had changed her. All the hope they had in their youth had been eradicated by war, responsibilities and parenthood.

It was during his time in the service that he recalls fully trusting his fellow soldiers and putting his faith into something larger than himself. Never before had he trusted so fully his life in someone else's hands, not even God's. He was alive, and he was taken care of like he hadn't been while at home. There was a sense of camaraderie, of kinship. Brotherhood.

And he'd tried to bring this sense of conviction and responsibility home, and to couple it with the rare lessons his father, abusive though he had been, taught him about taking care of ones family, even if only monetarily.

But now trust, in so many forms, has been eviscerated.

Even so, Olivia trusts him, and in many ways he wonders how one person can know him so intimately and believe fully in him, and another, like his ex-wife, can know him on an entirely different level of intimacy and yet still have almost no faith in who he is.

A grenade inside of him is about to go off.

He knows he's in love with Olivia, but sometimes, if his marriage is any proof, love just isn't enough. The dark shadow that haunts him feels heavier and heavier every day. He sits back in his chair and for a moment, the whiskey and water burns the back of his throat.

He lets go.

He hears the knock on the door but he doesn't answer. He can't. There's so much swimming in his head and he knows he'll say the wrong things. Instead of explaining, he finds it easier to shut off the light and go to bed, and no one is to blame for his broken heart but himself.

[]

She watches the light in his living room shut off, braces herself as she anticipates the door being opened.

When nothing happens for five minutes, desperation fills her chest. It's a sinking feeling, heavy, like some important part of her anatomy has made the descent into her bowels. She knocks again. And again.

Nothing.

Her phone burns in her palm but she's too hurt to retaliate now. Being apart is one thing, being cast aside is another. He's been there for so much recently, but now it's clear that whenever he slips back into that darkness in his head, he won't allow her in.

A couple drops fall softly from the sky, making a small tinny noise as they hit the beat-up dumpsters in the alley. Olivia breezes past, hoping to avoid the worst of it before she can make it to her apartment.

When she arrives, her face is wet, but it's long stopped raining.

[]

Sometimes she wants to lock herself inside his skin.

When she flips the lights off in her apartment, she sits still on her couch, curled up in a blanket and sweats and with a tray of half-eaten Oreos and an empty box of Thin Mints. Over the years, she's learned to soothe herself not with alcohol, like her mother did, but with late-night snacking. It's probably why she's not the svelte size 4 she was when she entered Special Victims, but she's still in shape enough to take down and cuff a man twice her size after 5 blocks so, fuck, who cares?

Olivia toys with her cell phone buttons with the fingers of one hand, tracing the years on the skin of her face with those of the other. She can hear new faint raindrops on the windows and she feels like she's listening to heaven shaking.

Fifteen cream sides later, she calls Elliot. She knows better, but the urge is too strong to resist.

[]

He's his own worst enemy. His spontaneous actions confuse himself. He doesn't know why he does things thinking they're the right things in the moment, why he sometimes finds himself unconsciously clenching his jaw and fists until they ache, why most days he wakes up fighting mad.

Elliot lays there in bed, tumbler knocked over his nightstand, thinking of the ways he's never really lived. Thinking of all the urges he's suppressed. Some of them are natural; some of them almost scare him.

With Olivia, he's playing a game too dangerous to stop. He doesn't know why he pulls back, but they always seem to work better when they're at odds. His reserves are nearly drained and he doesn't know how to get his train back on the tracks. He's furious. He's in turmoil.

And he can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, which just adds to his frustration.

His phone buzzes, snapping him momentarily from his wallowing. Olivia's name flashes at him on the screen and a warmth glides over him and then unrelenting want suddenly creeps in. It's something he can't quite reconcile in his head, the anger and the sex. Combined, they soothe him in ways he's aware aren't healthy. Before he even answers, though, he can almost hear the disappointed tone in her voice being replaced by an arousing one as his name passes her lips.

_I don't know what she would do if she knew this darkness_, he thinks. _Or, maybe she knows and that's what she likes. She's just as fucked up as I am… and she just gets it._

"Hey," he nearly growls into the receiver, his voice rough and husky.

"Hey? _Hey_?" she responds, annoyed. He can tell she's chewing on something, the nonchalance of her crunching means she's been mulling over this phone call for a while.

He sits up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed towards the window. Switching hands with his phone, he glances at the alarm clock on his dresser. The rivulets on his window should be a deterrent, but the erection straining against the worn fabric his underwear is a stronger current.

"You just gonna pretend you didn't hear me knocking? What is going on with you, Elliot?" she demands. Always demanding.

Sexy.

He bites his lip, covers his dick with one hand, pressing it down. "I didn't hear it, Olivia," he lies. "I was drinking."

A pause, and he continues softly. "I'm lonely."

The crunching stops, then it's a quick shuffling of fabric on the other end. "I'll be right there."

And the pin drops.

[]

An umbrella would have been a smart idea, and she feels stupid for not thinking of bringing one as the rain pelts her face. She shoves her gloved hands deeper into her puffy coat as if that will appease the chill nipping at her skin, but the goose bumps aren't from the weather. Her skin is on fire, hot like melted butter, against the layers and layers of clothes she'll make him peel off in penance.

Damn him for being so undeniably irresistible when he's brooding.

She finds his apartment still darkened as she walks up the front steps, but as she reaches to knock, the door opens to him in only silk boxers holding a nearly empty tumbler. In two months, they've switched roles. She's now the hopeful doe-eyed girl, and he's the wary, don't-tie-me-down alpha boy.

A gleam catches her eye as she walks in wordlessly, the same stunning gold that has caught her eye on many occasions recently. She's felt it when their hands intertwine, seen it when he's pointed something out, heard it when he's slammed his palms on a hard surface. The ring.

He's yet to take it off.

"El?" she questions as she pushes inside. He's only half naked but his soul is exposed. His shoulders look heavy, like they're holding the weight of the world, and he's swaying slightly.

He ushers her inside. "Shhhhhh," he says, his lips pursing in exaggeration. He pulls her arm so that she nearly falls into him as he shuts the front door. He reeks of alcohol, the familiar woody twinge of scotch flooding her olfactory senses. And yet, even intoxicated he can sense her unease. "What?"

"You're drunk." Point blank.

He scoffs. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," he mocks before laughing again. "Oh come on, you never imbiiiiibe from time to time?" he asks with his accent thick, the ice in his nearly empty glass rattling against the sides.

"Elliot, you're slurring. What's gotten into you? When I left you a few hours ago you were fine. Now you're drunk and surly."

"Pffff. I _am_ fine. Who are you, my wife?" and it stings more than it should.

She flinches and steps backwards, the pained look on her face clear. A flash of light fills the room followed by brief muted thunder, and he can almost see the anguish emanating from her eyes. Her nostrils flare out like an exploited bull, and suddenly he wishes he hadn't waved that red cape.

"Liv," he backpedals, stepping closer to her, shaking his head free of the lingering intoxication.

But she won't have it; she confronts him. "No, you're right. I'm not your _wife_. But you're _clearly_ still hanging on to that," she says, her anger unfurling as she grabs his hand roughly and shoves his ring finger towards his face. "Is that why you're drinking? You miss her?" her voice lowers, tauntingly, before she releases the grip on his hand.

He can almost see her heart break.

"No," he quickly denies. "I mean, yeah I miss her. That shouldn't bother you, though, because I'm not missing _this_." He waves his hands between them, then slowly bringing his hand back up, touching her face.

Olivia tentatively softens a bit, pressing her cheek more firmly into his palm.

"But I just needed a break. I feel like I'm suffocating sometimes." He leans in and encases her lips within his. His kiss is desperate and demanding. She wants to pull away, but every synapses in her brain fires off in ecstasy. The endorphins soar quickly through her and she collapses a little into him.

His mouth becomes more fierce and frantic, and both hands come up to cup her face. His fingers bury themselves in her highlighted hair. "I can't _breathe,_" he groans. "With or without you."

She wants to pull away, wants to be pissed off and hurt, but it's been over a week and she misses his scent all over her body. She's been longing for the moment when his skin is next to hers, but damn it, she wants to talk. She needs him to talk to her, needs him to share why this change in him drives a wedge deeper and deeper between them, all the while bringing them closer in body.

Finally, desperate for air, she pulls back and questions him with her eyes. She nearly comes apart when he turns away from her, and she watches the familiar jaw clenching and fist tightening as he marches to the kitchen. The mess she hears him make tells her he's searching for another drink, another ounce to ease the pain and quiet the storm.

She feels that this closeness between them, though inevitable, is not to last. What kind of relationship lasts when one person refuses to talk to the other? They are partners - at work, after work - but their partnership will be doomed if one of them continues to spiral out of control while the other clings desperately.

Following the opposite of her gut instinct, she turns to leave. In her head though, she's screaming at him to reclaim or release her.

And then he does.

His arms snake around her shakily; his semi-hard cock presses into the top of her ass. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, leaving a wet trail from his cheeks.

"Don't… don't leave me." It's a whisper, and it's embarrassing. "It was easy before, but there's something deeper now. I think it scares me," he admits, but to what is unknown.

Finally, a breakthrough.

Her shoulders fall and she reaches behind him, hugging his neck and head with both hands. "It's never going to be perfect. But it's time we talked."

They stand like this for long moments, only moving to rearrange their arms to grasp on tighter. They remove their riot gear and let themselves seep into the empty spaces.

And begin their end.

[]


	5. Chapter 5

_"I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it-and that's all I got." ~ Sabrina Ward Harrison_

When he's in with the counselor, and he's asked if he has someone he can count on, Elliot says no. He doesn't want to mean it, but part of him does because he's afraid Olivia just doesn't know his most buried secrets.

He doesn't even really know them.

He enters his apartment in the dead of night, the street eerily quiet. Perhaps everything that happened in that garage deadened his senses a bit. He can't feel the buzzing of his phone, and he doesn't know Olivia is desperate to see him.

With one swipe, every trinket and frame flies off the mantle and lands in a heap. Glass shatters all around him and echoes his life song. He lets out a primal yell, kicking and swinging his way through the disaster he's created.

He can't help the anger that swells inside him. It boils over, making him sweat profusely and releasing sounds from within that are deafening. Coupled with his anger, the fuel inside him is about to combust.

After fifteen minutes of destruction, he feels his anger slightly dissipate. Clearing a small corner of his couch, he slumps down, hanging his head in his hands. He wonders briefly what has become of his life, and tries to pinpoint when exactly everything started to unravel.

Guilt briefly stops him from destroying his entire home. Frustration allows him to drink three fingers worth of good scotch, the kind whose label is nearly worn off and rotting away in the back of his cupboard. Regret makes him wrap his hand around his dick and release some of the tension that has been building for three days.

The few moments he spent with Olivia on that pier with Cragen seemed to intensify his belief that he was doing the right thing. Even she looked at him with trust, and she's the most level-headed person he knows. Five months since his first blow up and they have been fine, fulfilled even. Until now.

Now he stands at his open front door, two worn canvas bags packed on the floor next to him. He's hesitating. The last three days took so much out of him, and the scariest thing is that he enjoyed the freedom of it all. Maybe he wasn't a depraved bastard like the rest of those fucks he bunked with, and most definitely not like Schenkel, but God… Ray saw though him anyway.

He turns around and looks at the disaster he's created. His apartment looks like it was ransacked by lousy burglars. Glasses are broken, picture frames toppled over, clothes strewn about and ripped. The climax of this arrest was a dizzying high, justice, but at what cost? To that girl? To himself?

"_I've always been a great judge of character. So I've been sitting here wondering how I could have been so wrong about you. Maybe I wasn't. Some of what you said was a load of crap, but not all of it. I can see it. You and me... we're brothers under the skin._"

Two different men – Ray Schenkel and Gordon Rickett – heartless, evil, absolute scum sucking sons of bitches both saw a kinship in his soul. If he were less damaged, Elliot could chalk it up as mere coincidence or simply words from the mouths of morons, but he's not, so he can't.

He shakes his head in dejection. Seven open rape cases on their desks this time and he chose to sink his teeth into the one that would bite back.

Elliot grabs his bags and heads to Queens, slamming the door to his apartment so hard the dogs upstairs begin to bark.

[]

"Elliot, are you okay?" Kathy's fragile voice tears at him in ways an evil man couldn't, wouldn't feel. It's a redeeming thought, albeit brief.

_"Rage and lust are hungry beasts inside of us."_

Tendrils of dishwater-blonde hair fall from her loose ponytail. With the back of one yellow gloved hand, she pushes the hair from her eyes and looks at him. He's dressed down, dark gray t-shirt under a lighter gray hoodie and worn in jeans, but he looks stiff and on alert. There are dark circles under his eyes and a gleam in them that is exotic and dangerous.

"I just want to see the kids." There's a twinge of attitude, and his body language tells her to back off. She can't though; she knows him well enough to know that whatever is bugging him is serious if he's willing to come all the way out here to see the kids.

"El, you can, of course, but…" she shuts her mouth when his eyes flash to hers in warning.

"I'll be back in a minute."

He takes his time navigating the hallways of their former family residence. His son softly snores in the room on his right and he feels a calm wave relieve the tension when he hears the sound. His two daughters share the room on the left and he enters. He sits on the edge of Kathleen's bed; tries to exorcise the demons in his mind. A flashback of his phony step-daughter story in group makes him shudder in revulsion as he gazes lovingly at his offspring.

He runs out of the room, horrified that he could even put those two images together.

Nothing feels right, as if all the strings holding him up have been finally cut away and he is left only to flail. The front door is right there, and Kathy is nowhere near it and he feels for a moment he can just free himself if he leaves. He drops his head to the cool glass with a small thump and takes in a few deep cleansing breaths.

"Wanna talk?" comes from a few feet behind him.

He feels drunk on his own hate as he inches right up to her and grabs her around the waist. With little effort, he pushes her into the wall, sandwiching her and sitting her on the cocktail table. A lamp falls over, shattering on the laminate flooring below. Kathy struggles weakly, but he knows she knows - both that she's no match for his strength, and that he won't harm her in any way.

His shoulders sag as, with eyebrows furrowed and jaw set, he lets her go and rushes out the door to his car, anxious to escape.

[]

Olivia doesn't feel saddened or upset that he chose his comfort in Queens. His kids, his previous life – it's all a familiar part of him of which he can't seem to let go.

But he has ruined her. Ruined her insides, ruined her for anyone else. She may be an independent woman, but she belongs to him, and she knows it.

The pathway to rational thinking broke when she followed him here. He wouldn't answer her phone, so _of course_ she decided to pay him a visit. God, could she be any stupider?

Her head hits the steering wheel at the same time his screen door slams shut. He doesn't see her car, and she doesn't see him leave. Self-pity swallows her whole and tears threaten her eyelids. She is a fool if she thinks she can tame him. He needs Kathy. Kathy is wife material; she was raised properly and knows how to take care of children and a home. Olivia can barely keep enough food in her fridge without it rotting. She doesn't know how many eggs to use in a chocolate cake or how to mop her floors.

She can comfort the most frightened child and take down the largest of men. That should count for something.

The air is suddenly cold and it's not her blood draining out of her though that's exactly what it feels like. The change in temperature is alarming and makes her lift her head. She wipes the small drops that have clung to her lower eyelashes on her hands as her head comes up. A grayish figures stands next to her window.

Startled, she cries out, "Oh god, Kathy." before rolling her window down at greet her partner's soon-to-be-ex-wife. "Sorry, Kath, you startled me."

Kathy's brilliant blue eyes soften. "Sorry, I just noticed you out here. You want to come in? I can make cocoa."

Olivia smiles. She exits the car and follows her lover's ex-wife into their former marital home.

[]

In the dark room, encased in his leather and wrath, Elliot lays atop the best mattress the NYPD could afford in 1973. The station isn't buzzing but it's not dead quiet so sleep is elusive and probably entirely out of the question. He's uncomfortable in his own skin and being back here just makes the dread seep back into his bones.

He'd placed his gun on Cragen's desk twenty minutes ago. Luckily no one was around except for a few officers, and he is hardly the type to care what idle gossip the uniforms spread. Cragen hadn't seemed overly concerned, but he took the weapon, unloaded and slipped it into his lower drawer, the same one which housed his dusty bottle of Vodka.

Nothing is accomplished without great enthusiasm.

With a sabbatical on his horizon, he stares at the bunk above his. The decision to tell Olivia rests in his hands and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to have that conversation. It will lead to whys and hows he's not prepared to answer, and instead, words would fall discursively around them.

Bernadette's voice had shaken with excitement when he announced his impending visit, but she was alone in that feeling. It's been almost two years since he'd seen her – a forced family weekend at Kathy's urgency – and she'd been bewildered then. Tensions were high in his vehicle as they drove the two hours southbound with Kathy yelling at the twins and Maureen and Kathleen fighting. Dickie was only 9 then, so all the voices in the car were high-pitched and migraine-inducing on top of the discomfort of the being anywhere near the wife who had kicked him out of their bed six weeks previous.

When they'd arrived, his mother was manic and all he could do was run on the beach to escape the insanity of the house. Under the glaring sun he'd pounded the sand with his worn out sneakers; his breath burning and aching in his chest, his knees nearly creaking audibly. He cursed himself for listening to Kathy and leaving his work cell behind when all he wanted to do was escape back into the world of crime fighting. At least there, his manhood was never called into question.

Yet now, he's still going south.

[]

Awkward silences weigh heavy in the dimly lit kitchen. It's late, Olivia knows, but she can't quite wrap her mouth around the words she needs to say. The woman in front of her is gorgeous and intimidating, probably because Kathy had spent over twenty years with the man _she_ still struggles to understand. Her ivory skin is soft and the crease lines around her eyes point to sleepless nights that were spent soothing crying babes as opposed to perp-watching, manhunts, and one night stands. Flickering candles create a halo around her yellow hair. Olivia feels so small around her; Elliot always mentioned having a thing for blondes.

Kathy holds the world in her hands; a mug full of steam and marshmallows and home. Everything that she isn't.

"So, Olivia, maybe you can enlighten me as to why my ex-husband decided at nearly midnight to stop by and look in on the kids?" The even timbre of her voice pulls Olivia from her self-pity. Kathy raises the cup to her lips and blinks slowly.

"Hard case," she starts. Her eyes drag down to her matching mug, mesmerized by the swirls of white from melted marshmallow that encircle the top. "Elliot had to go undercover and it was… rough."

Olivia's unsure of exactly what she can say to this woman in regards to the depravity of the work they do. She's a policeman's wife, but Olivia knows Elliot shut Kathy out towards the end of their marriage. Then again, Elliot has always shut people out when it came to tough issues. How much did he bring home, though? In how much detail can she go to begin to cover what kind of mess Elliot could be in? And would she possibly want to burst Kathy's cheerful, secure, little bubble?

"He had to pretend to be a pedophile to catch the guy," she blurts out, and then flushes at Kathy's shocked face.

Steadily, Kathy rests the mug on the table and reaches a hand towards Olivia, settling it kindly on her arm. Her hand is warm and soft and immediately calming. Olivia looks up and takes in a deep breath. "I wasn't there for the debriefing, but when we got the guy, he was unconscious and Elliot was handcuffed. I can only imagine what he's going through right now. I'm sorry to show up like this, I just… I followed him from his apartment."

Though tight-lipped, Kathy's smile shows understanding. "He's hurting, I can tell you that. But he didn't say much to me." She glances away, seemingly remembering something pertinent from Elliot's short visit. "He just wanted to see the kids. Left pretty quickly after without much of a word," she finishes, leaving out the tumultuous confrontation.

"I'm sorry, Kath-" Olivia starts, only to be waived off.

"Don't be. It was honestly more communication than we've had in years. Look, Olivia, I know that you know things about him that I never will, and the same can be said of things I'm aware of that you're not. But there isn't much I can tell you about his temper that you don't already know."

"Yeah."

"So do me a favor, will you? Don't let him sweep you away. He's a good man, and he'll always right himself, but I got caught up in trying to help him for years before I realized that he's happy to live inside his own angst."

It's not surprising to Olivia how well Kathy knows him, but it is startling how well the other woman can see inside her. She finds herself wishing further that she were more like Kathy. At least that way, she could feel secure in having her love spill out of every crack in her exterior instead of keeping secrets inside this hard-shelled detective from an unloved home.

Denying it will only make her look more guilty so instead, she rises. "Thanks for the cocoa, Kath. I should get going. I'm glad he stopped by here, at least to see the kids. They always help him calm down."

Kathy nods, not leaving her seat. "Yes, they do. Take care, Olivia," she says empathetically.

Olivia nods tightly, and turns to leave. She pauses only briefly at the front door, noticing a small picture on the table near the door. Elliot's face is beaming, and he's surrounded by his children. She thinks that maybe he's going to be alright.

She completely misses the broken lamp on the other side of the table.

Ignorance is bliss.

[]


End file.
